


Viral

by KritzSanity



Series: May This Be Love [2]
Category: Vento Aureo - Fandom, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Action & Romance, Assassination, F/M, How Do I Tag, Post-Purple Haze Feedback, Purple Haze, Slow Romance, Stand Battle, Voodoo Child - Freeform, minor depictions of violence and injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 06:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19351051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KritzSanity/pseuds/KritzSanity
Summary: Passione's jobs rarely go as planned, but rarely do they take such a grim turn either. Forced into action, Fugo receives near-fatal damage in combat with an enemy stand user.





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crazy_Vagimond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy_Vagimond/gifts).



> WARNING: Very minor description of gruesome stuff in the first 2 paragraphs. Skip only if you're extremely squeamish, otherwise I don't believe my writing is powerful enough to elicit too negative a reaction. Aside from that, enjoy!

Fugo stares down at his heavily infirmed right hand as his whole body begins shaking uncontrollably. He can feel his skin pale at the sight and his vocal chords tense with the urge to scream. It isn’t the pain, though it should be unimaginable; shock almost immediately took effect and numbed him from the whole world, even his immediate surroundings. Sheila E was nearby only a second ago, but now she’s a million miles away and Fugo finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from the self-inflicted carnage to search for her.

A pool collects below as the fetid ichor drips in rhythmic plops from his wounded arm. Purple Haze had never so perfectly eaten away at the top layers and left such a gory scene behind. Frayed and bloodied tissue lines the surface, interwoven with vast swathes of his muscle and specks of bone here and there.

A disembodied voice screams at him from within an echochamber than forces the words to reverberate around his skull, “Fugo? What did you do? We need to get you to a hospital now! How stupid could you have been!” He’s jostled out of his paralysis by the sensation of someone pulling him to his feet with all their might. Looking upon his would-be savior, he finally recognizes Sheila E. No one else is near them in the dark, moonlit alley. More precisely, their less fortunate opponent no longer exists in any physical form, having been quickly dispatched by the virus into a bubbling pile of carrion and then into thin air.

“Sh-Sheil-la? Wh… no, no. We can’t go to a hospital,” with his thought process severely dulled by the cocktail of adrenal chemicals in his system, Fugo struggles to vocalize his rationale, “They’ll ask too many questions… Even our P-Passione badges won’t shut them up if they see this…” As she drags him to his feet, he keeps a firm vice-grip on the elbow of his injured arm, every change in direction a twinge of what should register as immeasurable pain.

“Then we’ll go to a fucking safehouse nearby and patch you up with vodka and duct tape if we need to! Just get moving!” With the blood rushing through his ears it almost sounds like Sheila E is choked by the violent cries. Fugo is able to shakily raise to his full height and barely gains a wobbly footing before Sheila E begins rushing him out of the alley as fast as his weakened legs can take him.

“Just,” she inhales deeply and forces her cadence to steady itself, “Just stay calm! Are… are you getting cold? Tell me, you aren’t. Please.” Her plea squeaks out in a mousy voice, any bargaining it signified aimed at a higher power. Because that higher power knows Fugo is in no state to receive her concern.

“Think... I’ll be able to play piano again after… after this?” Delirium sets in and his unrelated thoughts begins spilling out.

Sheila E attempts to allay her own panic as she moves closer to the boy she’s escorting, “Fugo, just…! You’ll be fine and you’ll be able to play again fine after Giorno gets back from Rome!”

“Maybe I don’t want to play th-that damned thing again,” he mutters under his breath vindictively, “And Giorno? Where is he anyways? I’ve got to tell him w-we completed our… mission!”

Sheila E can only force long, steady breaths from her lungs to stave off the increasing threat of hyperventilation. “Shhhh,” she rubs his back comfortingly though he can neither feel or acknowledge it, “We’re almost there. Almost there. Just… a bit further.” She wildly swivels her head around to survey the nearby street signs - heart palpitating at the though she might have missed a turn somewhere - and then she sees it: “It’s this way! Over here, I can’t remember the damn street name, but that graffiti, this is it!”

Fugo narrows his eyes at the sign, fighting his blurry vision and hanging darkness before she ushers him quickly past it. Another couple of turns this way and that and they arrive at a door painted maroon and decorated with a Passione door-knocker. Fugo hardly realizes where they are before Sheila E begins pounding on the door with both her fists and her stand’s. “Let us in, damn it! _Tu pigri bastardi_! Open up, we have wounded!”

“Quit your pounding, ya crazy bitch!” A muffled voice screams from the other side of the door, ringing out at full volume once he opens it, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing? It’s eleven at ni- Mother of God! What happened to this kid?”

Shoving Fugo over the threshold first, Sheila E flashes her pin and berates the gangster, “You aren’t paid to ask questions! You’re paid to man the damn safehouse door and do it quickly, so get him something to dress and clean his arm!”

It’s at this point Fugo loses any memory of the rest of the night, though he isn’t sure if his consciousness had left him.


	2. Backtrack to Flashpoint

It was supposed to be an easy, internal affair. Sheila E tracks the gangster and takes care of him herself. Simplicity at its finest. Of course, it was Murolo that suggested she take backup: “Look, I know you want to do this on your own, But you really should consider having a partner on this one.”

“I can handle this alone.”

Flipping through the folder in his hands, Murolo coldly notifies, “Hubris like that will only get you killed, kid. If the reports have even a speck of truth to them, this guy isn’t going to be easy.”

Confident and rushing the conversation so that she could leave, Sheila E fires back, “They’re never easy.”

“Ah, maybe not. But this man, Josef Calzone, has been well documented to take on and bind his targets, only to toruture them - sometimes to death. Honestly, we don’t know if he has a stand: another Capo testified to hearing from Polpo himself that the lighter was returned to him still lit after all. But he’s taken on and killed more experienced users than you because they got cocky. If you don’t trust me, give Giorno a call, he seemed to think this guy was all that too when I mentioned that last tidbit.”

“Fine, fine,” Sheila E concedes, “There’s no need to bother Giorno. I’ll find someone. Any suggestions?”

Murolo shrugs, “Doesn’t matter to me, I could just be overreacting. I just suggest you get someone you trust.”

And so it came to pass that Sheila E rather cryptically invited Fugo to join her on a mission that she was sparing on the details with; it would have been his day off assignment, but he accepted on a whim, finding her insistence somehow impossible to refuse.

It was after hours of tracking Calzone with Voodoo Child that they were attacked after sundown in a bottlenecked alleyway. Iron Maiden was Calzone’s stand’s name. It was a thin, metal exoskeleton that formed and clung to him from behind. It was hard to notice at first and Sheila E had unleashed a flurry of blows thinking him defenseless. Calzone merely broke off one of the arms of the stand and gently tossed it at Voodoo Child to immobilize her. In the blink of an eye Sheila was trapped from neck to toe in iron bindings alongside her stand; Voodoo Child seemed knelt down but free from control, but Sheila E’s struggling hardly wiggled her own stand’s fingertips.

Fugo tried to materialize Purple Haze straight into a solid blow into Calzone’s chest, but his opponent was quick on the draw. He too crashed to the ground as Purple Haze was forced into a kneeling position.

“I’d normally make this last longer,” Calzone ruthlessly spat as he brandished a gun and walked towards Sheila E, “But I don’t think I have time to show you lap dogs the error of your ways. Our “boss” will be next, and I’ll show him all the ways I disagree with his new policies… in detail.”

Sheila E bought time by taunting and threatening him, but still hardly moved her stand as she railed on. Calzone was unphased and continued his path towards her, racking the slide and loading a bullet into the chamber only a few feet away from her. At the sight, Fugo was overcome by a cold, calculated rage that only gripped him once back at the Università di Bologne. It was a mistake not killing Fugo in one shot, and going after his partner first was the spark that set off the whole powder keg. 

With a huge effort, Fugo forced Purple Haze’s fist closer and closer to the bindings around him; it may not kill Calzone, but even a small blow from Purple Haze’s fist should destroy his prison. He could only hope that Iron Maiden lacked in durability what it made up for in incapacitation. And caution had to be thrown to the wind as he wound up his stand’s fist just as Calzone aimed his gun’s barrel at Sheila E’s immobilized frame.

Using centripetal force and the last of his limited strength, Purple Haze’s fist crashed against Fugo’s bindings and they gave way immediately. Calzone staggered for a moment and looked back, but still stood with the rest of his stand clung to his back. Yet it wasn’t so much the jolt that aroused Calzone, but the resounding shatter of something small near Fugo. Purple Haze’s virus quickly spread across Fugo’s fingers as he jumped to his feet at lunged for Calzone in a blur.

Calzone tried to move his sights onto Fugo, but proved far too late compared to the boy’s rage-fueled movements. As Fugo flew forward he unfurled his fist straight into Calzone’s jaw, transferring a healthy dosage of virus onto the traitor.

Fugo could only fall onto his knee and half-heartedly pray that his impulsiveness had paid off and only one person in the alleyway would die that night. It was then that he felt the numbed flames dancing across his right arm and raised it to his face for inspection. Fugo began shaking as he stared down at his heavily infirmed right hand.


	3. Only Slightly Worse for Wear

By the time he awakens, the sun sits directly above Naples to view the bustling city below. For a moment, all is forgotten of the previous night and Fugo props himself up in bed to stare serenely out the nearby window, spying passersby sauntering through the streets. His surroundings are foreign, but of an excellent quality that doesn’t prompt him to question it; were he in any danger, he wouldn’t have woken up in such a clean and affluent living quarters. As he continues his vigil out the window, bits and pieces of last night trickle into his mind and he scrunches his nose in discomfort.

It’s only when he looks down to his right hand and notices the thick bandaging extending almost to his elbow that the climactic showdown returns to him in full color. He carefully prods at the gauze with his other hand, attempting to assess the extent of the treatment he’d clearly received. Despite his memories perfectly skipping between arrival and awakening, his arm was clearly wrapped (hopefully cleaned too), he also felt as though he were coming down from a painkiller, and he was sat comfortably in a warm bed at least a floor up from street level.

An IV drip sits nearby with a number of empty bags carelessly tossed onto the floor. From where he sits he’s able to decipher a blood bag and morphine dosage in bold among the fine printed medical jargon. He hears footsteps frantically ascending the stairs and casts his gaze toward the door in expectation of a visitor.

The ancient hinges creak and whinge as the intruder attempts to push the door open at a deliberately slow pace. “Damn door… richest organization in all of Italy, but we can’t get a new one?”

Recognizing the voice, Fugo teases aloud, “All of Italy must have heard that, you might as well just open the door now..”

At the sound of his taunt, the door swings open to fully accommodate Sheila E. “Fugo! You’re awake!”

As she hurriedly rushes over, Fugo mistakenly interprets her tone as one of excitement and begins explaining, “Yeah, I’m up now, Sheila. Not feeling so hot tho-...” His assurance is cut short as Sheila E begins raining light blows onto his head.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you  **trying** to kill yourself? What you did was the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen you do and that’s saying  **a lot** !” She isn’t striking him with her full force, but each blow is enough to leave a stinging point of impact.

“What’s wrong with me? You’re beating up on an injured guy, damn it! We won, didn’t we?” He tries to shield himself with both arms, but Sheila E deftly avoids either and continues striking around them.

Having had enough, Fugo catches her by the wrist with his uninjured hand and glares at her, “Alright. That’s enough.” The edge in his voice is a world away from his previous tone and it succeeds in stopping the assault.

Sheila E yanks her arm free and huffs as she turns away from him, arms akimbo, “Fine. But you really were an idiot last night.”

“I really didn’t have a choice,” Fugo massages where she assaulted him, “And don’t you think almost losing an arm, much less my life, is more than enough punishment?”

She turns back to him flustered with her eyes downcast and cheeks flushed, “I just wanted to make sure you understood how I-  **we** all would have felt if you died.”

“Speaking off ‘we’,” Fugo expertly dodges the reminder, “Does Giorno know we succeeded?”

Rolling her eyes, Sheila E indicates, “Yes, he knows we ‘succeeded’. I also had to notify him how you almost killed yourself. He’s still away in Rome for another day, one final meeting he can’t miss. When he gets back, he’ll heal you and hopefully chew you out some more.”

“Sheila, look,” Fugo stands and raises his hands, “I am extremely sorry for what I did and whatever effects it may or may not have had. If I did nothing… well, you couldn’t have dodged a bullet at that range.” His voice grows quieter at the memory of the close call.

She finally looks up to meet his eye, “I know. And thank you for trying so hard to save me.” She stands on her tip toes and comes so close to his face that he can feel her breath ghosting his lips, “But you were still dumb for doing it.” In a single, fluid movement, she brings her hand up to his nose and flicks it.

Fugo pulls back and shields his nose as he yells, “Damn it woman, are you done hitting me?”

Smiling slyly, Sheila E replies, “Of course. Now come on,” she walks back to the door, “Let’s go get gelato.”

“I don’t really feel like meeting anyone right now…”

Sheila E throws her head back with an exaggerated sight, “How do you not know what gelato is? It’s like ice cream, but a million times better!”

“Then why didn’t you just say ice cream?”

She narrows her eyes at him and raises her hand, “Do you want gelato or more smacks?”

After feigning contemplation Fugo resolves, “Let’s go get some ice cream.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she rolls her eyes again. Fugo laughs under his breath, this was his way of getting back at her: what sort of Italian didn’t know what gelato was after all?

The safehouse watchman bid them farewell without so much as looking up from his newspaper and they made their way down the street to the gelato shop. Not caring what he gets as nervous pains begins wracking his arm again, Fugo gives Sheila E the choice for whatever they get and he asks, “So, Giorno can’t come back a day early and miss  **one** meeting, huh? That important?”

“Well,” Sheila E replies sarcastically, “Since it was your fault you ended up that way, I suggested he keep on schedule.”

He frowns, “That’s not a fair assessment when Giorno only ever healed Mista’s own bullet holes.” His comment receives a giggle and a bloom of warmth in his chest as a reward.

“If I remember correctly,” she begins to answer honestly, “It was a meeting with someone from that American foundation. The Speedwagon foundation. He was going to meet a marine or something.”

“Like a soldier?”

“No he was a scientist.

“So… a marine biologist? What, is Passione going to save the dolphins next?” What could Giorno want with a marine biologist? On second thought, hadn’t a Speedwagon Foundation blimp been present at the Stadio Guiseppe Meazza that Sheila E took him to meet Mista at? On third thought, Fugo realized he didn’t really care one way or the other.

Swiveling her spoon around her gelato cup, Sheila E corrects, “You know, you may be joking, but why not? Once Italy has been secured, maybe Passione can focus on helping other countries or surrounding areas with disasters that plague everyone.”

“Bit ambitious, don’t you think?”

She shrugs, “You know Giorno. Doesn’t sound so crazy when you put the idea with the man.” When it’s put that way, Fugo does find himself inclined to believe such a thing is possible. Still, the Mafia fraternizing with a respected foundation didn’t seem right and nothing could convince him otherwise.

“What are you thinking?” She asks with her penetrating eyes.

Fugo attempts to steer the conversation, “Work, I guess.”

“Really? Almost dying once in a day isn’t enough for you?”

“In all honesty,” he rubs the back of his head, “I was thinking about how dull it was when you weren’t around.” She seems to go quiet, so he continues, “I mean, sure, last night was bad. But usually, organization work is more fun with someone you know to do it with. I can’t shake the feeling that anyone else I work with has some sort of preconceived notion of me.”

“Like I did?” Sheila E mutters.

He shakes his head, “Worse. You eventually changed your mind. Other gangsters think of me as either a through-and-through traitor or Giorno’s gilded lap dog that gets special treatment.”

“I know what you mean,” the inquisitive glance Fugo shoots her prompts her to elaborate, “No matter where I go, every team I meet pre-judges me as some upstart brat undeserving of her position. I was never in the foreground of the organization you know, even in the Boss’ Unita Speciale I never engaged in head-on conflicts. Everyone thinks my first big job was taking down the Narcotics team: a traitor pitted against traitors.” Her face falls into sullen thought for a moment before continuing, “As far as anyone from Sicily to Aosta is concerned, I spit in Passione’s face and somehow landed a high position in its ranks. They’re probably just jealous.”

“But you never even betrayed Passione,” Fugo reminds, “Wanting to kill a fellow gangster is nothing out of the ordinary in our line of work. Besides, you sought permission from Giorno before even looking into la Squadra’s condition.”

She shakes her head, “While you’re right, it’s the fact that I joined to destabilize one of the organization’s teams that people have problems with.” Sheila E sneers as she criticizes, “Apparently, getting into organized crime to avenge a family member is less honorable than doing it to get stinking rich while throwing your morals away.”

In all honesty, Fugo had never really thought about Sheila E’s “betrayal”, instead merely discounting it as an excuse by Giorno to pair them up and learn from each other. That man played chess three-dimensionally and it was definitely a calculated gamble on his part. But in light of her confided explanation his blood simmered at the thought of murderous rogues no better than one another presuming anything about her. They didn’t know Sheila E. They didn’t know a thing about her past, her reasons. They see a young woman and assume favoritism, rather than acknowledging her clear skill.

In a moment of uninhibited umbrage Fugo asserts, “To hell with those assholes. They call you in to help pick up their slack and have the balls to talk shit behind your back? Coming from a real traitor, that’s pretty scummy.”

Smiling softly at the defense on her part, Sheila E opines, “Thank you… but you’re no traitor, Fugo. You had your reasons for what you did.”

He’s immediately taken aback at the statement: they hardly discussed the Narcotics team mission for very long, much less why they’d been chosen for it. She had also never relayed these opinions before, indeed a part of Fugo still thought she held him as a traitor in her heart. He wondered mutely what had changed.

Apparently though, his face still betrays the confusion towards the statement as Sheila E quips, “My god. Is it really so shocking that I said something nice about you?”

“I mean,” he composes himself, “Would I get slapped if I said ‘yes’?”

She leans back, smirking, “No, I’ll reserve that for when you royally screw up. Like almost killing yourself after you spent so much time telling me to avoid doing the same at all costs.” Her lighthearted tone softens the comment, but the underlying sense of irritation that still persists reminds him more and more of their frenzied flight to the safehouse last night.

If he weren’t so willing to blame the delirium, he would have taken note of how utterly scared Sheila E had been throughout. Of course, it was probably less about him dying and more so the gruesome mess his arm became. Then again, her unrelenting harping on him today did point to something of a concern for his safety. Still, they were friends and that was only natural. They  **were** friends at this point, right? Do friends sometimes have those peculiar tennis matches of stolen glances when they think the other isn’t looking?

As they fall into a comfortable silence, Sheila E turns to look out the nearby window at the sound of commotion on the street. The stylized stained-glass pieces cast prismatic shapes of radiant oranges, yellows, and reds across her olive complexion. Fugo finds himself oddly appreciative of the soft contours of her face that evoked a sense of familiarity within him. He originally thought her resting face a sullen frown, but came to see it more as a defiant front against hardships cast upon her since youth. By the time she turns back to him, he has his attention focused solely on the empty gelato cup in his hands.

“Seriously though,” she reiterates, “Promise me you won’t do anything so dangerous again. If you have to do it for anyone, do it for Giorno. He still really needs you.”

Her words were cleverly projecting, but Fugo saw her hidden meaning. “Alright, I swear I won’t do anything so dangerous again. If I can help it.” Both of their lips tug upward as they lock eyes again.

“I suppose that’s as good as I can hope for,” she accepts with a light smile.

She asked him to do it for Giorno, but he silently decided to do it for her for the time being. It wasn’t Giorno that asked him to promise, after all. The warmth spreading through his chest burgeons again, and he can’t help but worry a moment for his health. The creeping sensation feels unnervingly soothing and completely infects his being whenever it flares up. He’ll ignore it for now though - however viral in nature it seems - perhaps it is a good thing after all.


	4. Pestilential Warmth

Walking up to the door of the manor, Fugo raises the knocker with his good hand and brings it down in three solid knocks. It's one of the caretakers that greets and points him to the drawing room. The room's western wall is comprised almost entirely of bay windows that flood the interior with natural light. Of the many things that could describe Giorno, “decadent” was not one of them - despite the clear wealth at his disposal, his manor was a gift from the area’s Capos and he chose to furnish it meagerly.

Giorno sits in one of two out-of-place folding chairs facing the windows, book perched in his left hand. “Giogio,” Fugo addresses him.

Glancing to him before motioning to take a seat in the folding chair beside him, Giorno silently marks his spot in the book and sets it in his lap. When Fugo sits beside him, he thanks him without tearing his eyes away from the beautiful ocean vista sprawling before them, “I’m glad to hear you received so little damage from the mission. And despite Sheila E’s side of the story, it sounds as though you made the best of a horrible situation. You have my commendation.”

“Thank you,” Fugo simply responds. He knows Giorno well enough by now that he can tell the Don is about to impart something important onto him.

“In fact,” Giorno continues, “It sounds as though your partnering with Sheila E has only ever been beneficial.”

He asks for clarification, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’ve just noticed you two always succeed. Neither of you has spectacularly failed on your own to date, but as a duo you only ever impress. Sheila E seems to think she’s rubbing off on you negatively though. Sacrificing yourself had her quite shaken up.”

Fugo confirms, “I… had an inkling.”

“Yes, but,” Giorno contradicts, “I see this as a net positive. Alone, your shortcomings are your own and you are accountable, in a way, only to yourselves. When together, you share your burdens and your faults imprint upon each other in a relatively positive way.”

“I’m sorry,” Fugo tries to understand, “I don’t see what you’re getting at or trying to say.”

Finally turning his head, Giorno extrapolates, “Your fury becomes both your and her invincible will in battle. Her urge to self-sacrifice becomes a tendency for both of you to fight for more than just yourself in any situation, whether that’s for each other or some ideal is up to you.”

“I… suppose that makes sense, in a way.”

“And so, I’ve made a decision,” he concludes, “It would be a waste to perpetually keep you separated from each other. Your bond goes beyond friendship. Sheila E’s assignments dwindle in number as she continues to complete one after the other and our campaign across Italy has almost entirely wiped out opposition to Passione through both peaceable and forceful means. After a few more planned missions, I intend to place the both of you in charge of keeping the peace in Naples.”

“Now, now hold on,” Fugo colors up, “‘Beyond friendship’? I don’t know what you **think** is happening, but-…”

Giorno cuts him off before he can dig himself a bigger grave, “I don’t mean anything salacious, Fugo. It was with great consideration that I did this, you know. You were able to cut a path through the darkness and turn misfortune into victory. That is resolve.” His praise keeps Fugo silent, “And that resolve seems only possible when Sheila E is involved. You’re synergy in battle is perplexing, but undeniable. This change won’t interfere or put Passione at any disadvantage, quite the opposite, I assume.”

Fugo lowers his head in contemplation. By Giorno’s logic it’s only sensible he arrived at such a conclusion and it sounds as though little else other than logistics was taken into consideration. But why is that warmth once again oscillating out from his chest? He almost feels the need to thank Giorno for his decision, but instead settles for, “If you think it’s for the best, then I agree, Giogio.”

Giorno smiles in turn, gesturing to Fugo’s bandaged arm, “I’m glad to hear that. If ever an injury comes about from your resolve, I’ll be happy to heal it. But please don’t make it a habit, I may not always be only a day away.”

Looking down, Fugo barely catches a glimpse of a pale, incorporeal arm receding back towards Giorno before disappearing completely. It looked entirely different from the Gold Experience Fugo had seen but a few times, yet its effects were unmistakable. He adroitly unravels the bandaging encasing his arm to reveal a limb as pristine as if nothing had occurred in the first place. Tracing his fingers over the surface and marvelling at the perfect regeneration, the warmth in his chest begins to abate and he finds himself anticipating its return.

Why would that be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are. Another somewhat slow build up to any romance, though I have little else standing in the way after this. These first two works succeeded in getting my own headcanons and ideas of how things play out after PHF while slightly weaving in some FuShei. Still, I hope the slow start works in light of the normally reserved attitudes of the characters. Until the next time, I hope you enjoyed reading this.


End file.
